


A Candidate for My Affections

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [7]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Autochrissexual, Clint Barton's smarter than he seems, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Voyeurism, romantic, sexuality series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: From the minute Phil Coulson watches Clint give a blow job in a back alley, their lives become intertwined ... maybe even inevitable.  But how does an autochrissexual, asexual who loves to cuddle build a life with not just one, but two world class heroes?





	A Candidate for My Affections

**Author's Note:**

> This is another in my ongoing sexuality series, my attempts to wrestle with various sexual identities. Here I'm playing with autochrissexual, those who are aroused by watching or fantasizing about sex but not necessarily by the actual physical act. What if Phil is both autochrissexual and asexual but loves to cuddle? Clint, an exhibitionist, is two steps ahead of Phil. And somewhere along the line, Bucky Barnes worked his way into the tale. 
> 
> Been a rocky few months on the writing front for me. I'm thrilled beyond belief to have finished this. It's complete self-indulgent: I wrote whatever the muse wanted and am happy to have words on paper.

Whoever you are holding me now in hand,  
Without one thing all will be useless,  
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,  
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?  
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?  
Walt Whitman

 

Philip J. Coulson held no illusions about himself; too many all-consuming fires, end-of-the-world scenarios, and damned-if-you-do decisions had left little room to believe he was a good man or the hero the world needs. No, Phil knew he was a guy who’d followed some morally questionable orders, done some bad things in the name of good, and not regretted some terrible events. He’d shot first and damned the consequences.

That didn’t mean he advertised the details of his life; it was nobody’s business who he did or didn’t date or sleep with or pine after. He’d never made any bones about work coming first, relationships a distant third behind the Nets and his sister and her kids. If he never took honey pot missions or had his name linked to another in the office gossip roundabout, well, most people chalked it up to Phil being an all around perfect agent. So when he found himself crouched behind a dumpster one corner away from the dingy area behind a dive bar in Naples, Italy, earbud in place and screen brightness turned down to mix with the neon open size in the next window, Phil was surprised when his body decided to take matters into his own hands.

 _Aborted breaths, tiny moans, a long sigh. Unbuckled belt, unzipped jeans, dark wiry hair curling around blunt fingers. Stretched lips, deep breath through the nose, slide, twist, pull. Lashes squeezed tight, lids closed, cheeks hollowing and filling. Wet where knees pressed against dirty asphalt, toes of dark books curled under, hips rising and falling, tiny lifts as he worked. A cough, an almost silent orgasm,_ adam’s _apple bobbing as he swallowed, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb._

_“Jesus, that was …”_

_Unfolding himself, rising to full height, dark eyes pinning the man to the wall with an intense gaze._

_“Sorry, right, no talking, I forgot. I just … um, do you want me to …”_

_Silent and still, not a twitch of muscle beneath tightly stretched cotton and aged jeans._

_“Yeah, I’ll go.”_

Phil slipped his gun out of his holsters, shifted his aching cock away from the zipper, and tucked the mini-monitor into his pack. By his estimation, he had twenty-three seconds to intercept before the target got away again, and that was an unacceptable outcome. He’d already put his career on the line to follow this trail, used up all his favors and put himself on the Director’s shit list for staying long past mission parameters; no way he’d lose the best chance he had to his erstwhile reaction to a back alley blow job. His dick could wait its turn.

He made it with three seconds to spare, enough time to step out of the shadows into the full light and give his quarry a full view of the barrel of his Glock. “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” Phil said in his most innocuous lost tourist voice. “I wonder if I can have a word.”

Clinton Francis Barton, Hawkeye, Ronin, fourth most wanted rogue operative, God damn handsome man with biceps to die for and eyes the color of a stormy sky, stopped, raked his gaze over Phil from head-to-toe, lingering on the bulge in his slacks, and slowly raised his hands, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“Interesting gambit. Is it the ‘let’s be friends’ or ‘I want to fuck you before I kill you?’”

His voice was knit from sin and cigarettes, still rough from sucking a stranger’s cock, but Phil’s arousal wilted under the gaze. Barton might be his perfect man, but this was real life, not a fantasy.

“I’m Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division, and I’m here to talk to you about a job.” His aim never wavered. “I love the eggplant with honey at Casa de Pepe; can’t visit the city without stopping in. We can move this conversation there or I can let you head to your meeting where Madame Masque plans on ambushing and killing you.”

One eyebrow went up; Barton cocked his head and looked Phil over again, slower, cataloguing the many weapons hidden beneath the nondescript suit.

“Hard to ambush someone when he knows it’s coming.” Barton smiled. “I haven’t survived this long in the game by walking into traps.”

Phil tipped his head in agreement. “True. But then there’s the little issue of Baron Zemo’s tracking team, Taskmaster leaving Sevilla this morning, oh, and Bullseye’s escape from the Fridge as of two days ago.”

“Fuck.” Calculations flowed in Barton’s changeable eyes; within seconds, he made up his mind. “If S.H.I.E.L.D.’s paying, I could go for some croquettes and patatas bravavas.”

“Excellent.” Phil never lowered his gun. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Coulson!”

Barton jogged up and dropped in beside him as he made his way to the stairwell.

“Some of us are going to down to the bar for karaoke night; wanna go with?”

Two years and Barton was finally settling into life at S.H.I.E.L.D. After a rocky start thanks to some boneheaded instructors and higher-ups who couldn’t see past the ex-carnie bad boy exterior Barton wore like a badge of honor, but a stint working with the Arms Master and Barton found his niche. Now he had a flock of newbie recruits and plebs from the academies who followed him like baby birds, hanging on his every exploit.

“If you’d ever heard me sing, you wouldn’t ask.” Phil started down the thirty-seven flights to the garage, Barton keeping pace. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already got plans.”

“Yeah, sorry, but a stack of paperwork and catching up on reruns don’t count as plans for a Friday night.” Clint laughed when Phil cut him a sideways glance. “Hawkeye, remember? I notice things. Got a full briefcase on one shoulder, you’re taking the stairs which you only do when you’re about to eat something with a ton of carbs, ergo you’ve ordered noodles from that shop you love, the one that’s only take out, not dine in, and you told Dento yesterday you’d kill him with a paperclip if he spoiled the last three episodes for you. Paperwork, take out, and TV.”

“While I appreciate your skills of observation in the field, Barton, there is a time and a place for deductions.” He might be right, but Phil didn’t have to justify his choices to anyone. “And there’s nothing wrong with an evening in.”

Barton jogged ahead a few steps, turned to face him, going down the next flight backwards. “Look, I just want you to know that you’re always invited; you wouldn’t be intruding or anything. And if you ever want some company, I have the first four seasons on Dog Cops at my bunk. Might even talk you into Thai.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Phil said, his brain running a mile a minute, trying to determine if … no Barton couldn’t be asking him out. Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew Phil didn’t date, so this must be a friendly thing, maybe team building. “And you’re right, it would do me good to get out now and then. But not karaoke.”

“Sitwell keeps going on about Lakers; we should get tickets the next time they play the Nets,eh?” Clint almost missed a step, landed on his toes and spun around. “Serious bragging rights if we beat his beloved team.”

Phil hadn’t been holding his breath, not really, so he didn’t let it out, but he did feel a tendril of tension release. “That sounds like an evening out I’d enjoy.”

Later that night, after two hours of paperwork, three episodes, and a full order of Japanese pan fried noodles with tofu, he flipped through his options, the box of VHS tapes sitting on the bed next to him. He found them at a flea market, tucked behind rusty tin signs and big band LPS. Vintage erotica, that’s what they’d called it; he’d bought the whole lot along with a Captain America tin full of trading cards and a stack of hardbound Perry Rhodan novels.

The first tape was grainy, well worn and so very 70s, complete with shaggy mustaches and polyester bell bottoms. The boom mic dropped into the frame and the dialogue consisted of grunts and moans over disco music with too much synthesizer and drum machine. The next was greyed out in places, the third one Phil had seen before, and the fourth an 80s version of Romeo and Juliet where Tybalt was fucking Mercutio and Benvolio was going hard with the lovebirds.

He let the next one play, only half paying attention as he separated the cards into neat piles. Nothing he didn’t already have, but a couple that were in better condition and one that was in Spanish. The extras he put in the trade stack; he knew a few collectors who were looking for one or two of them. All the while the video played in the background, more noise than anything else.

_“... looks bad, I know, but I can explain.”_

Head snapped up and Phil focused on the screen. A pool boy scenario, probably filmed in the producer’s backyard. Two large men in bathing suits, one dark skinned, the other covered in blonde curling hair. Between them, a young twink, barely legal at most, slashed t-shirt riding up to reveal a six-pack abs and the low hanging hem of jeans shorts, eyes hidden behind dishwater blonde shaggy hair. They crowded in on him then the music changed and clothes began to come off, plot dispensed with and porn started.

_“Oh, yeah, suck it hard.”_

The young man, on his knees, licking his lips and opening his mouth, tilted his head, and Phil sat up, leaning closer to get a better look. There, by his left eye, a small scar, a reminder of his father’s temper. Once Phil knew, he could see the cheekbones, the rounded nails and muscular fingers. It was definitely Clint Barton.

_“You like that? You want more?”_

_Hands grabbed his hips, lifted him up, straightened his spine. A thumb breached, and Clint moaned, pushing back; mouth freed, he began to beg, right on_ script _a cock pushed between his lips, another sliding in from behind. Arched back, bent knees, rocking back and forth, he took them both._

_“Little cock sucker, that’s what you are.”_

Phil breathed in through his nose and let the air hiss out between his teeth as his body stirred, arousal quick, his own dick twitching and growing.

_Laid out on a chair, spread open to be fucked, mouth another hole to be filled. Used by stronger men, turned and placed and held tight. Appealing eyes, gazing up, submitting and accepting. Streaks of white on cheek and back, bruises blossoming, pearly dots over pale skin._

Fumbling in the drawer, Phil grabbed the lube; he freed his cock, stroking himself as the scene unfolded. Predictable, staged, and still Phil was sweating in seconds, his orgasm building.

“Yes, sir, I’ll be good sir.”

He came with a blinding release, falling onto his back and closing. Chest heaving, his mind blank, Phil floated, intense climax rippling from toes to fingertips. By the time he came back to himself, the tape had ejected, static across the screen.

Carefully, he checked the label, noted the company name. Two more from the same studio were in the box. He slid them onto the shelf, side-by-side, guilt twisting in his gut; Clint had never made a secret of his past, of what might be hidden in youth and years. By the date on the VHS, Clint was twenty when he’d made the film, but had he been willing? Or had he been driven by hunger and need?

Tomorrow, he’d track down the who, what, when and where. Then he’d know what to do next.

 

* * *

 

He blinked himself aware, a nagging sense he’d forgotten something he needed to remember.

Beneath his cheek, warm flannel and steady heartbeat; around his waist, comforting weight of muscular arm. Patchwork quilt wrapped around their legs, tangled between knees and tucked under toes. Quiet whisper of wind around windows, cracks of burning logs, fragrant pine and hints of cedar.

“It’s good. We’re in the safe house, mission accomplished and we’re waiting for ex fil, ETA twenty-two hundred tomorrow.”

Clint’s chest rumbled as he spoke, vibrations soothing Phil, morphine doing its job and dulling the throb of the wound and the ache of the tight stitches.

“Shouldn’t be …” Phil tried to get his arms to work, to push away from the contentment of Clint’s arms.

“Hush.” Clint tightened his hold. “There’s a difference between cuddling and something sexual. Grew up in foster care, remember? I know touch starved when I see it. Besides, I’m too comfortable to move and you’re warm as fuck.”

“Not supposed to.” He couldn’t remember why it was so important not to get close to Clint, why it was wrong to feel safe, to give in and curl up in the the heat. “I’m not …”

“Doesn’t matter. Go to sleep, Phil. I’ve got the watch; nothing’s going to happen. Promise.”

The helicopter arrived twenty minutes early; Phil, still groggy from a second dose of pain meds, didn’t argue when the medic put him on a stretcher, refusing to let him walk. I.V. in his arm, a series of shots, they were in the air, heading home. Beside him, Clint made a seat out of his bow case and backpack, wedging between the bulkhead and the stretcher, talking all the while about wanting to go on a fishing trip.

Fading in and out of consciousness, Phil jolted awake as turbulence rocked the plane. Fingers squeezed his, solid, familiar, real. With a sigh, he drifted back off, assured all was well.

 

* * *

 

“When I find out who put together this research packet, I’m going to bust them back to rookie status,” Melinda growled. “Now Romanoff’s been exposed and we’re no closer to getting those scientists out.”

Phil sighed; he knew what needed to happen, knew he was the one who was going to have to do it. “It’s a small hiccup, that’s all. We know where Panakovas is and now we know how to distract him.”

“At a BDSM dungeon looking for a dom he can take home and break?” Bobbi Morse shook her head. “If he was into women, I might be able to pull it off, but …”

“I’ll do it.” Clint twirled the arrow in his hand before he tucked it in the quiver. “I can take one for the team.”

“As much as we appreciate the offer…” Melinda didn’t have to finish the thought.

“I know, I know. You think I can’t pull of the badass part.” Clint grinned and looked ten years younger than he was. “That’s where Phil comes in; with him in my ear coaching me, I can channel a tiny bit of his swagger and, Voila!, big bad Clinton.”

“I’m not going to let you …” Phil started to object.

“It might work,” Bobbi said. “Clint’s a performer at heart; put him in the spotlight, and he’ll pull it off long enough to get into the compound and distract Panakovas until Melinda and I get in and out.”

“And Phil’s the agent of record, so he put a lock down on the feed if things get complicated,” Melinda agreed.

“Am I going to get a say in this?” Phil asked.

“Nope.” Clint nudged him with his shoulder. “Now teach me, Obi Wan, I have much to learn.”

Later, when Phil was hidden away in a nondescript van, headphones on, screens showing what Clint was seeing through his special S.H.I.E.L.D. issue glasses, he wondered if he’d dreamed Clint’s tiny wink, the touch of Clint’s fingers against his wrist, the slight quirk of his lips that all but screamed he knew exactly why Phil didn’t want to be the one striding up to the mark. That he knew about the shadow files of pornographic films tucked away in the cloud, the stack of photos in a metal box in a safehouse in Milwaukee , the go-to fantasies of showers and pools and lots of skin. How could Barton know? Or did he just suspect that the reason Phil never dated, why he turned down invitations, had a list of pat answers, was lack of interest? Did he believe Phil was picky, waiting on Mr. Right, selective by choice like everyone else? Could he know that the very thought of the mark’s hand on his skin turned Phil’s stomach?

“Shoulders back, hang your hands at your side, let them swing a little. Add another inch to your stride and keep your eyes focused on someone at the bar. Move like you know where you’re going and why.”

It was all too easy to talk Clint through it, to accept the fantasy, camera creating distance. Up close, the mark looked like one of those 70s porn actors, complete with bushy mustache and curly chest hair. Phil dropped into his headspace, safely out of range, and talked Clint through how to play the part to perfection.

“Good, don’t be too interested. You’re looking for a submissive, not another dom. This is just passing time, being companionable. Keep the conversation light, about the weather, but scan the room with your eyes, maybe …”

_Clint leaned an elbow on the bar, relaxed, his shirt pulling across his abs, buttons straining as he dug his wallet out of his pocket. Credit card appeared in his facile fingers and he twisted as he offered it to the bartender, enough to widen the gaps and show the tight lines. Mesmerized, Panakovas stared at the silvers of tanned skin then shifted on his stool._

_“I’ll have a Macallan, neat, and a refill for my friend here,” Clint was saying. “Had a bad day at work and I hate drinking alone.”_

Anything but subtle, the mark asked pointed questions, stirred Clint’s emotions, probed for weaknesses, and Clint answered every one with a hint of doubt wrapped in pure strength. He was good, better than Phil had thought possible, smooth lies that might have a grain of truth tripping off his tongue.

_“... much of a fan of that sort of thing.”_

Clint scanned the room, eyes and camera pausing at a table in the back corner where a man knelt, skin shining in the light, black rope criss crossing, tied in intricate knots, just enough tension to keep his head and shoulders pulled back. A ball gang filled his mouth, a cock ring around his straining erection, and silver clamps on his nipples.

“ _No?” Panakovas raised an eyebrow. “Most_ doms _in this place would kill for a sub like that. Ivan’s in high demand; Marquese signed a contract with him just yesterday and, from what I hear, plans on making it permanent.”_

The sight didn’t distract Phil, nor did the woman, breasts bouncing, riding a business man’s cock in another booth or the sloppy blow job in the hall by the bathrooms. The club might bill itself as exclusive, but it was little more than a sex joint with better wallpaper.

 _“... far too messy, I clean up enough crap in my job;_ last _thing I want is_ splatter _on the carpet.” Clint swirled the last of his drink. “I don’t get it, how drawing blood can give pleasure.”_

_“Don’t knock it until you try it. I think every dom should switch up once and awhile, try the other side of things.” Panakovas finally broached the subject. “Did me a lot of good; helped me understand what I liked and didn’t like.”_

_Clint turned his gaze back to the mark. “Let me guess. You’re offering?” He chuckled. “That your thing? Dom a dom? Get him to beg?”_

“Barton, don’t push it too hard …” Phil warned. “He wants to feel in control.”

_“That’s exactly what I’m after. I’ll make you come for me, harder than you ever have.”_

“Seriously?” Phil asked. “Does he think that will work?”

_“That line ever work for you?” Clint said._

_“You’d be surprised. Lots of guys want to find out how the other half lives. Human nature to be curious,” he replied._

_“And what, you get off breaking them? Some sort of king of the mountain level shit?” Clint huffed. “Cause that’s not on my agenda for the evening”_

_“I do like a little pleading for release, but I don’t care about who’s on top. You can have your turn in the_ morning, _if you want.”_

Clint negotiated for another ten minutes before leaving with him. As they rode in the taxi across town, Phil checked the protocol, ensuring the feed was secure and locked down. Sex was not required, but it happened; sometimes the only way was through the bedroom. In those cases, an agent could request the files be sealed, the feed eyes only for the agent-in-charge.

“Passcode is seven, six, three, three, eight, seven, one.” Phil asked as the peripheral camera in Clint’s frames caught the numbers Panakovas entered on the keypad. “The retinal cloning is finished.”

“On it,” Melinda replied. “We’ll be inside in five.”

Tapping his fingers on the keyboard, Phil took a few deep breaths, following Clint’s progress into the house and upstairs to a bedroom. Wasting no time, Panakovas had Clint pushed against a dresser, pinned his hands behind his back and was rolling his hips, rubbing himself along the seam of Clint’s pants. Craning his neck, Clint looked around the room; a large standing mirror made him pause. His eyed his reflection and then winked.

“Stay focused,” Phil warned. It was hard enough … no, he was going to be hard enough without Barton deciding now was the time for that friendly flirting he liked to do.

_“What if this doesn’t do it for me?” Clint asked, tilting so the subcutaneous radio patch was on the other side from the hand that settled around his neck. “I mean, I’m not into pain or being bound …”_

_“We find what does get you off.”_

Heavy breathing replaced words; Clint kept the mirror in his sightline so Phil could see the whole room. As clothes came off, Phil found himself flashing to the DVDs he’d digitized and stored in a shadow file, the curve of a young Clint’s neck, his pleading eyes begging for more. Slowly, Phil’s cock began to fill , each grainy pixel exciting him a little more. He was about to see Clint Barton get fucked for real and, damn it all to hell, he couldn’t stop his body’s reaction.

“We’ve got a problem.” Melinda’s voice broke into the tableau. “Who has lasers, three locks, a key code, retinal scan AND a thumbprint entry?”

“Clint, we need a thumbprint.” Phil passed along the news. “Anyway you could …”

With a shift and an obvious movement, Clint bumped the edge of the dark frames against the post of the bed, knocking them askew.

_“Oh, hey, could you…?” he asked._

_Panakovas removed them. “You don’t need them anyway.”_

_“Actually, I’m blind as a bat without them, and I like to see what I’m doing.”_

_Raising the glasses, Panakovas peered through them, the lens adjusting as they registered his fingerprints and shut down the system. “Wow, you really are. What are you, 20/400 or something?”_

_“20/600 in the left, 20/400 in the right. Everything’s just a blur of color for the most part.” Clint squinted._

_“And you like to see.” He slipped the frames back on Clint. “That’s why you’re fascinated with the mirror. You want to watch. Or be watched? Which is it?”_

_He spun Clint around, pushing over the dresser, spreading his legs and stepping between them. With his cheek on the wooden top, head turned to the side, Clint had a full view of himself._

_“Nothing like a perfect audience; tied up, straining, waiting, watching me. Might be just a bit of an exhibitionist when it comes to my subs.”_

The words shot right to Phil’s gut, stirring the simmering lust.

“We’re past door one; two more to go,” came Melinda’s update. “Tell Barton I’ll owe him after this.”

_“Then let’s give you something to watch, shall we?”_

_When the mark put his hand at the base of Clint’s neck, applying pressure to keep him still, Clint exhaled a long breath and relaxed into the increasing pain. When he kicked Clint’s legs further apart, slipped a cock ring around his half-plump cock and pinched his inner thigh, Clint kept his eyes trained on his reflection. When the first flat palm smacked his bare ass leaving a bright red handprint, Clint caught his lower lip between his teeth and sighed._

_“Like what you see?” Panakovas angled them until Clint’s ass was on display, open and empty. “Ask nicely and I’ll let you come.”_

_“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Clint chuckled. “There are such things as cameras, you know.”_

Phil choked then covered himself with a cough.

_“But if it will hurry along the proceedings, then please.” Clint didn’t hide the hint of exasperation. “Come on, man. Fuck me already. Sir? Daddy? Milord? What’s your poison?”_

_The next flurry of slaps shoved Clint across the dresser, pushing him closer to the mirror. “You’re a mouthy one. Maybe I should find a gag to shut you up.”_

_“Oh, but then you’d miss just how good I am at sucking cock. I’m a champion from way back; amazing what you can get just by getting on your knees.”_

Good God, but Clint was looking at Phil, gaze never wavering, as if he was talking to him, about that day in the rain, Phil watching the back alley blow job, gun in hand, ready to take Clint in.

_“I’ll have you on your knees.” Panakovas grabbed a condom package and rolled it on quickly. “And at my mercy.”_

“Second one down,” Melinda reported.

“Clint, you don’t have to …”

 _Words replaced breaths then breaths turned to groans. Sharp slaps, hard thuds, loud creaks. Straining muscles, bent knees, darkening bruises. Strong thrusts, pointed demands, aborted cries. And through it all, blue-grey irises that spoke volumes in their open depths. Drawing it out, giving the others the time they needed, offering up his body as_ distraction _._

His cock strained against his zipper, but Phil ignored the throbbing ache.

_“Gonna have to say it,” Panakovas whispered. “Not gonna let you come until you do.”_

_“Hope you took a little blue pill, then,” Clint replied._

It wasn’t the same; in the pornos, Clint had been acting, the danger pretend, the bodies plastic. Phil could enjoy the fantasy because it wasn’t real. This, though, this was more nightmare, one he’d approved and sent Clint into. Barton might not agree … the man had few qualms about doing what needed to be done … but to Phil, having sex with a mark should be on the no go list of options.

“Assets acquired. Three minutes to van.”

“Three minutes.” Phil repeated to Clint.

_“Come on, dude, harder. Not going to get there at this pace.” Clint angled his hips so Panakovas could thrust deeper. “You want me to beg, gonna have to work for it.”_

The dresser began to shake, Clint locked his knees and Phil had a front row seat to the climax. Panakovas didn’t hold back, tightening his hand around Clint’s throat and digging his nails until he drew blood. Every part of Phil screamed to get Clint out of there, but Agent Coulson counted the seconds and let the scene play out.

“In route. ETA seventeen to the ex fil site.”

“All clear.” Phil switched cameras and saw Melinda driving along a dark road. “We’re done.”

_“Ah.” Clint groaned. “Okay, okay. Please. I need to … Gotta let me …”_

_“That’s right, boy, grovel.” Panakovas gloated, leaning over to whisper in Clint’s ear. “Going to have to do better than that.”_

_“Please.” Clint’s voice quavered. “Want to get off. Just let me. Please.”_

_With a harsh laugh, Panakovas slammed his hips against Clint. “You’re going to feel this for days.”_

_“Yes.” Clint murmured more than spoke. “Better like this, with you watching, telling me what to do.”_

Phil sat back in his seat, the words a punch in the gut. He couldn’t mean … no, it was part of the act. It had to be.

Ten minutes later, Clint was out the front door, leaving a fake number and a promise to call next time he was in town. Phil picked him up four streets over and in an hour they were onboard the jet. Paperwork was filed, the film sanctioned and classified eyes only, and, during the whole process, they never spoke of what had happened.

 

* * *

 

He moved the last box, stacking it with the other empties to collapse and recycle. Light poured in the floor to ceiling windows as he looked at the stacks of his belongings. His books were piled near the empty shelves, DVDs next to them. Action figures were scattered across the kitchen counter, plastic boxes of trading cards and crates of comic books on the floor. Photo albums, framed posters, and a half-finished prototype of Captain America’s shield leaned against the walls. Everything accounted for except for a handful of old VHS tapes.

In the grand scheme of things, Phil was a lucky bastard who should be thankful that he was even alive. When Loki stabbed him, he knew he was dead and accepted that his part in the story was done. His only regret, the last thing he thought before the darkness took him, was of Clint, still lost to Loki’s control. Then he woke up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, hooked up to machines and barely breathing, a tear in his chest; three weeks later, Stark showed up, Phil discovered everyone believed he was dead, and he was on the quinjet, Tony on the phone to the best doctors he could find.

Somewhere along the line, while Phil was sleeping and being poked and prodded by specialist after specialist, the Avengers moved him into the Tower, boxing up his stuff and carrying it into a suite three times bigger than his apartment. Months passed as he gained strength, struggled with physical therapy, and slowly got back into fighting shape. Steve was a frequent visitor to the gym, urging Phil on. Bruce was his reading companion, spending hours on the couch with science journals as Phil worked through the Song of Fire and Ice. Tony, it turned out, understood the need to be useful, offering Phil various jobs in the lab, most that involved sitting on stools and looking at a screen, but, hey, he was getting something done. Pepper took him to get a haircut, bought him pajamas with Cap’s shield on them, and smuggled him the best coffee. Natasha made him laugh with her dry sense of humor, too much sometimes, but the ache in his chest reminded him he was alive.

Clint, well, Clint was always there, the bedrock of Phil’s recovery, tucking blankets in around him, making him cocoa, ordering his favorite curry, watching movie after movie, binging Supernanny and Supernatural. He cuddled up when Phil was freezing, cheered him on for one more set of reps, told him over and over again how much the Avengers needed him. He talked about Loki, the blue wash and icy touch, the unspoken screams for release, the tiniest of rebellions as he pulled slightly to the left, missed the heart, wounding instead of killing. And in the middle of the night, when the shadows slithered from the depths of memory, he held Phil in his arms, shivering alongside him, combining heat and pushing back against the dark.

“Jarvis?” Phil made a circuit of the living area before going into the second bedroom. “Is this everything? Maybe there’s more in storage?”

“All of your belongings are in your suite, Agent Coulson,” Jarvis assured him. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for? I compiled an exhaustive list of the contents of each box; perhaps I can help you find it?”

“You scanned the boxes.” Phil wasn’t surprised. Tony programmed the A.I. and he didn’t know the meaning of privacy.

“To be thorough. I keep comprehensive lists of everything in the Tower to facilitate restocking in a timely manner.”

Phil sighed. “Well, then, I’m missing some VHS tapes from a company called Big D Designs, seven in total.”

“Ah, yes, Agent Barton said you might be asking about them. They were damaged during the battle when a beam fell into your apartment building; I have, however, stored your digital copies on your personal drive and updated the quality.”

He sank down on the guest bed as the folder appeared before him, seven videos alphabetically listed, followed by another folder entitled “For Phil.” Inside were four more files; he touched the “Watch Me First” and started playback. Clint’s face appeared, a crooked grin as he rubbed a hand through his hair.

 _“Hey, so, um, if you’re watching this, you’ve gone looking for the old tapes and Jarvis has led you here. Don’t worry, nobody saw them; Nat and I got them right after the fight. Didn’t want anyone else to find them, you know?” He chuckled as he stepped back and_ PHil _saw he wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of threadbare sweat that rode low on his hips. “Yeah, I knew you had them. Remember when you got shot in Helsinki and I slept on the couch ‘cause you were so high on pain meds you wouldn’t stay in bed? I stumbled onto them while looking for your grandmother’s quilt that you were sure was missing. Was surprised at first, I mean, I didn’t know you were even into guys at that point, had pretty much decided you were asexual, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of you getting off to those old flicks.”_

He was in his apartment in the Tower, specifically the master bathroom; he reached into the shower and turned on the water as he talked.

 _“Took me a bit to figure it out, and even then I wasn’t sure if it was just watching or if it was only particular people that got you hot and bothered, but that A.I.M. guy … Panalaka?_ Panaloss _? … pretty much settled it for me. See, I’ve had this massive crush on you since the day you watched me give a blow job in that alley then was all cool as a cucumber, going to shoot me or recruit me.”_

Fingers caught the edge of his sweats and eased them over his hips; they pooled at his feet and gave Phil a perfect view of Clint’s bare ass and length of his body.

_“To be clear, I’m an exhibitionist. Nothing gets me harder than someone watching me. Give me an audience and I’ll pretty much anything you want.”_

Door slid open and he stepped into the spray, leaving it open so Phil had a profile view.

_“And I want to be whatever you need, Phil. Thought I had time to think about it, but then that bastard got ahold of me. I’m not asking for anything physical; I know that’s not what you do, and, truth be told, I’m fine with just this. Standing here, talking to you, knowing you might watch this one day, maybe more than once. Gets me hot under the collar thinking about what you’ll do to yourself.”_

_He soaped up his hands and ran them down his chest._

_“Will you get hard for me? Reach down and rub yourself? Unzip your pants so you can jerk off?”_

Phil forgot how to breathe as Clint’s hands roamed over muscle and skin, arching his back then twisting then balancing on one leg then the other. His cock stirred as Clint’s did; Phil clenched his thighs when Clint’s fingers brushed against his balls.

_“How do you like it? Slow and easy?”_

_Calloused fingers circled, gently stroking the velvety head. A long exhale, a lengthy_ ahhhhh _and Clint hung his head, eyes down, fixated on the motion. Water dripped from his nose, rivulets running over the veins of his arm._

_“Or fast and tight?”_

_Closing his fist with a squeeze and a twist, speeding up. Groaning, low in his throat, spreading his legs and stretching out his other arm, pressing his hand flat on the tile,_ bicep flexing _as the shower beat down._

Phil moaned, hit pause and stumbled into his room, fumbling through a side drawer until he found an old, half-used tube of gel. “Fuck me,” he said as he hit play and rubbed the gooey substance over his hand. “You’re going to kill me, Barton.”

 _“Those videos …” Clint’s breathing began to speed up “... I was young and they hired me …” he bit his lip, squirted more shower gel in his palm, went back to work on his cock “... because I looked_ under age _. Is that why you like them? ‘Cause I was going through a twink phase?” With the same singular intensity he used in the field, Clint focused in on chasing his pleasure. “Or was it how I was always at the mercy of the bigger guys? Held down, mouth full of cock, ass pounded …”_

“Jesus, Clint.” Phil leaned back onto the bed, propped up on his elbows and slid his other hand between his legs to fondle his balls, the intensity of his arousal driving all other thoughts from his head.

 _“I got off on it, Phil. Knowing people would watch it, get their rocks off on me being spread open and used.” Short strokes, rising to a climax. “But when it’s just you watching? So many things I can show you …” A sound low in his throat, a grunt_ and _a curse dropped from his lips. “Fuck. God, I’m going to come so hard for you. Wanted to … draw this out … first one .. but ..ah …”_

It was the curve of Clint’s neck as he tossed his head back and spilled over his fingers that did Phil in. Slick line from ear to thigh, stark relief of muscles and bone marked by scars and shadows. A Greek statue in living flesh, Apollo fresh from a fight or a fuck displayed only for him. His own climax hit, tightened coil that, when released, flashed white behind his eyes and shook him to his core.

_“Jesus, Phil, that was ..” Clint turned off the water, stood for a moment. “That was freakin’ amazing. I mean, I don’t even know if you’ll ever see this, but if it was that good just thinking you’re on the other end of the camera, what would it be like with you in the same building? The next room? God, I wish I could go find you right now, drag you to the nearest couch and curl up under that fuzzy blanket you like. Glass of whiskey and I’d be in the mood to try that jazz album you keep going on about.”_

“You hate jazz.” Phil lay flat on his back, not ready to move. “You’d be complaining after two tracks.”

_“This could work. Really. I’d like to try.” Clint stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. “If I don’t hear anything from you, I’ll assume you never found these videos and we’ll just go on as we are. I like how we are, by the way; never realized how much the pressure to have sex affected my relationships until you. But if you want to … or even just want to talk about it … well, you know where I am.”_

“Talk about it.” Phil snorted. “About you over there and me over here? That’s not …”

 _“Stop arguing yourself out of it.” Clint grinned right into the camera. “I know you_ Phil _. And you know me. We’re past that shit, okay? Don’t let that Wannabe Godling win. We’re alive and we could have something good. It’s worth the chance.”_

The screen went dark; Phil stared at the ceiling for the count of five inhales then pushed himself upright. Three more files remained unwatched: “Bed,” “Chair,” and “Range.”

He swiped them away, got up, zipped up his pants, and went to find Clint.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.” James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, stood in the doorway of the common kitchen, long hair falling across his eyes and hiding half his face. “I wanted to say, um, thanks. For the other night. And sorry. That I woke you.”

Phil looked up from the hot cocoa he was stirring, homemade melty goodness swirling in the pan. “You’re welcome, and there’s nothing to apologize for. Clint and I both have trouble sleeping sometimes.”

“Yeah, but you two were … “ James rubbed a hand over his face and scraped the hair back behind his ear. “I didn’t realize you were together, together. Like a couple together.”

“Almost four years now.” Phil took down an extra mug and lined it up with the other two already on the counter. “Hard to imagine, but there it is.”

“Wouldn’t know nothing about that; never dated anyone more than a couple times before the war and then, well ....” James’ gave a half-snort. “Hell, no one knew I existed when Stevie was in the room.”

“The man does have abs you can bounce a coin off of,” Clint said, appearing behind James and bumping his shoulder companionably. “Come on, have some cocoa. Phil uses Mexican chocolate and it’s got a little kick to it. Best thing for late night bouts of insomnia.”

“I just wanted to …” James trailed off as Clint slipped an arm through his metal one and maneuvered him across the space. “You’ve got no sense of boundaries, do you?”

“Nope. Phil can tell you I’m the best cuddler in this fine upstate facility which, considering who lives here, isn’t really saying that much. And you are in need of some serious cuddling.” Clint grabbed the open bag of marshmallows and shoved four on top of his drink once Phil finished pouring. He offered them to James who gave in and put two on his.

“I don’t know where you get your weird notions; I’m a heartless brain-damaged assassin or don’t you listen to the Secretary of State’s briefings.” James leaned against the counter, idling pushing the fluffy white into the steaming sweet brown. “Cuddly isn’t in my profile.”

“Uh Huh.” Clint took a sip of the scalding hot liquid without flinching. “I seem to remember someone’s ice cold feet on mine. Oh, that reminds me ..”

As Clint patted at his pockets, going from hoodie to jeans, James shook his head. “Look, it was a bad night, that’s all. I don’t …” He looked at the small flat squares Clint dumped on the counter. “What the hell are these?”

“Hand and feet warmers. Cold always starts in my feet and works its way up. You’d think it would be where the sceptre touched, but, nope, it’s the feet. Now Phil, he’s got it worse; damn thing went right through him so the ice is inside. Thank God for peppers and hot sauce.”

“Always surprises waiters when I order the hottest curry.” Phil shrugged and sipped his cocoa; he’d left off the marshmallows and filled his mug to the rim. “Doesn’t drive away the nightmares but it helps, especially when shared with others.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’ve already stuck your necks out enough, talking sense into Steve and getting Stark to not kill me on sight. I don’t want to cause any more problems.” He finally took a drink, paused, looked down. “This is really good.”

“I’ll make extra from now on,” Phil promised. “And if you can’t sleep, you’re welcome to join us.”

Phil watched him retreat, half awestruck by virtue of talking to Bucky Barnes, half worried by experience with post traumatic stress. Since the almost disastrous Accords situation and the revelation of who killed Stark’s parents, everyone in the facility was walking on eggshells, trying not to upset the apple cart of personalities and grievances. It had taken a lot of talking and fancy footwork to get Steve to come clean with Stark before he hied off to save Bucky, and even more linguistic dancing, including a few threats, to get Stark to let Barnes come here after the Wakandans cleared the HYDRA programming from his brain. Tense moments, aborted conversations, drawn out silences … the Avengers compound wasn’t the most relaxing place to be for an ex-brainwashed soldier.

“Man’s touch starved, that’s what he is.” Clint circled the counter to stand by Phil. “Fucking HYDRA. If Pierce weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. Might go shoot his tombstone just because I can.”

“Touch obvious if there’s an arrow sticking out of it.” Phil sighed and let himself rest against Clint’s body. “Won’t help Barnes though and someone needs to. Steve’s too wrapped up in his guilt and Stark’s stewing in what he thinks is righteous indignation.”

“Gotta love Cap, but Steve’s not so good with seeing the obvious, dating Sharon right in front of Sam and Bucky. If you can call an occasional awkward kiss dating.”

“What?” Phil turned his head to look Clint in the eye. “Sam too?”

“Oh, soooooo much Sam. Trust me on this one,” Clint said. “You know, maybe that’s the answer. We could lock Sam and Bucky in a closet …”

“No.” Phil used his Director of SHIELD voice. “Do not, in any form or fashion, attempt to set them up. I have it on good authority that Barnes isn’t interested and the last thing we want to do …”

“... is alienate him further. Got it.”

They sipped their cooling drinks in a companionable silence for a few heartbeats.

“Not interested as in not interested or might be interested in other alternatives?” Clint asked.

Phil put his mug on the counter. “Are you thinking about …”

“Maybe? I mean, we’ve talked about it and we know he’s got the cuddle thing going for him …”

“You’re an amazing man,” Phil smiled as he slipped an arm around Clint’s waist, pulling them until they were face-to-face. “With a boundless ability to care about others.” He brushed his lips lightly against Clint’s, safe in knowing Clint would want nothing more than the simple touch.

“I got a Phil kiss, so this is a red letter day.” Clint tugged him the rest of the way until their bodies were lined up perfectly for Phil to tuck his nose in the curve of Clint’s neck. “We’ll take it slow, see what happens. You say stop, we stop.”

“I love you so much,” Phil mumbled into the warm skin.

“Me too, babe. Me too.”

 

**EPILOGUE**

(SOMETIME IN THE FUTURE AFTER THANOS WAS DEFEATED AND THE AVENGERS ARE ALIVE AND AVENGING)

“You jumped off the roof.” James crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“And Thor caught me,” Clint shot back.

“Then ran into the burning building.” He followed Clint across the common room. “The one with unexploded ordnance inside.”

“I had a fire retardant arrow.” Clint winked at Phil and gave him a thumbs up. “Plus, Tony was around.”

“One arrow. And Stark was on the other side of the island.” James sighed. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you?”

“Moi?” Clint winked and spread his arms. “Is it working?”

“Still a better shot than you,” James replied as they headed down the corridor towards their quarters. “So, nope.”

Phil couldn’t keep the smile from tugging up the corner of his lips. Despite Clint’s usual disregard for gravity, the mission had gone well; James was settling into the mantle of Captain America and the team was coalescing around him, Tony had accepted his role as genius scientist with a grace that came straight from Pepper Potts and their son, Martin. With Rhodey retiring, Natasha taking over training of the new recruits, and Sam stepping in as yin to James’ yang, the Avengers were going strong, and there was another generation waiting in the wings.

“You know, I really missed that happening,” Steve said, watching the two men disappear. “Was too caught up in wanting Bucky back to see what he really needed.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Phil replied with a friendly pat on Director of SHIELD’s shoulder. “I didn’t see it either. It was all Clint. He’s been ahead of me the whole way.”

“Guess that’s why they call him Hawkeye after all.” Steve smiled. “He hides it well, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed he does.”

Phil’s phone chimed softly; he glanced at the text.

“Go on.” Steve nodded towards the door. “One of the perks of being the retired director is getting out of paperwork. Keep ‘em happy; I like it when Buck smiles so much.”

Long time ago, Phil would have blushed at the knowledge Steve Rogers knew the details of his private life. But now, well, Phil was the guy who’d followed, and given, some morally questionable orders, he’d done both good and bad things and tried not to regret those decisions. Didn’t matter if the world knew who he slept, cuddled, or lived with. He still loved the Nets, his sister and her kids, and put the safety of the world high on his list of priorities, just behind protecting the people he loved, especially two men who accepted him as he was and gave him everything he needed.

_“Took long enough.” Clint started talking as soon as Jarvis had the screen open. “You know how he gets after a good fight.”_

_“After you do something stupidly risky, you mean.” James grabbed Clint and tossed him over his shoulder, carrying him over to the_ king sized _bed. “Honestly, you about gave me a heart attack; might have to tie you up and leave you here next time.”_

Phil kicked off his shoes, taking the time to find a hanger for his jacket and suit pants. When James was like this, he was going to take his time pulling Clint apart, inch-by-inch and scar-by-scar … and Phil loved every damn second of it.

_“Aw, Buck, you’d miss me and you know it. Who’d give you grief over the comms? Play fuck, marry, kill to pass the time?” Clearly not concerned about his current upside down position, Clint slipped his hands down and grabbed a handful of James’s ass. “Compliment you on these super tight leather pants straight out of a wet dream?”_

_“Jesus, Barton. You’re the exhibitionist. There’s no damn reason to have a sleeveless vest except to show off your biceps.” James tossed Clint onto the bed so he could pull off one of his boots. “Phil agrees with me, don’t you? It’s a distraction.”_

_“Hey, can’t help it if you’ve got a hard-on for my arms. They’re really nice arms, ones I’d like to have wrapped around you while you fuck me into the mattress so we can give that new camera app a go. Bet that’s what Phil’s thinking about right now, 4K view of you pounding my ass, not uniform design.”_

“I can multitask,” Phil assured them. Down to his boxers, he climbed on the bed, propped himself up with a pill, and picked up the bottle of Gun oil. “I can think of a few more buckles on the Cap suit and get off at the same time. Assuming you two ever get around to the orgasm part of our evening.”

_“Right to the heart of the matter as always, babe.” Clint’s eyes darkened, his arms reaching out to catch James half unbuckled jacket. “Come on, Buck. Let’s show him how it’s done.”_

_“Okay, darlin’.” James glanced over his shoulder at the camera. “Ready, Phil?”_

He looked at the two of them, a deep well of satisfaction and contentment opening in his chest, driving out any lingering cold.

“Always,” he said.


End file.
